


Airbhe

by Alliemackenzie28



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Hurt Derek Hale, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-19 15:57:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13707771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alliemackenzie28/pseuds/Alliemackenzie28
Summary: Airbhe- a hedge of protection





	Airbhe

There are three classes of men blessed by God, whom that detestable race cannot injure with their witchcraft. And the first are those who administer public justice against them, or prosecute them in any public official capacity. The second are those who, according to the traditional and holy rites of the Church, make lawful use of the power and virtue which the Church by her exorcisms furnishes in the aspersion of Holy Water, the taking of consecrated salt, the carrying of blessed candles on the Day of the Purification of Our Lady, of palm leaves upon Palm Sunday, and men who thus fortify themselves are acting so that the powers of devils are diminished; and of these we shall speak later. The third class are those who, in various and infinite ways, are blessed by the Holy Angels.

From Malleus Maleficarum, Part 2, Question 1: Of those against whom the Power of Witches availeth not at all.  1486

 

“It is too dangerous for the common man to have this knowledge,” said the old man.  “No, there would be chaos.  So the church has handed down through the Order of Argent the ways of eradicating the devil’s work from the world.  It is time that you should learn them, child.”

Christopher had been eight when his grandfather, divinely appointed Head of the Order of Argent, had begun his instruction in the ancient and sacred art of Hunting.  Now, he was a Hunter in his own right, a man in body and mind, and heir to the Headship.  His father was Head now, but everyone knew Christopher didn’t have the stomach for it and would pass the position to his daughter as soon as papal approval came from Rome.

Meanwhile, he Hunted.  Armed with salt and water and herb, he stalked his prey in forest and field, tracked them until he was close enough to put an arrow through the heart of the beast, watch as it writhed on the ground, change rolling over it, briefly making it take the form of a man, then back to the beast it was, before settling into something that truly looked human.  It wasn’t.  The Order had taught him that werewolves took on human form when they died in order to confuse the common people, to make them believe the creature had had something human in it.  The Devil’s work.

He salted and burned the corpse of the last were in this pack, which had taken the form of a young girl, no older than his own daughter.  It disgusted him, but he was happy with his work, knew that every were he sent back to Hell gained him status in Heaven.  
\-------------  
Through the trees, a young wolf watched.  As the fire burned away his sister’s flesh, he felt the power of the alpha pass into him.  He was alone.  
\---------------  
Warm and green, light soaked the earth around the dying mallow seedling.  The change wouldn’t be instant, Stiles knew, but the plant would live.  He’d started it too early, and there had been frost the night before, growing so cold inside his small pit house that he’d shivered himself awake and relit the fire.  He judged all the other plants to be healthy still, and shut the gate of the wattle garden fence behind him.  

Three dirt steps down and he was inside his house, a low square thing dug into the side of a hill with the walls built up with blocks of sod.  In the center was the tiny stone fire ring he used for heat in the winter.  In the corner farthest from the door was the pile of dried grasses and animal furs where he slept, and next to that was the shelf that contained a collection of clay pots and bottles and a carved wooden box, sealed with beeswax to keep the damp out, that held his books.  

Today was washing day, and it was still the rainy season, so he wouldn’t take the books out yet.  Gathering his small collection of clothing into a bundle, he tied it to his horse with a flick of his hand and a barely-there push of power, followed it with the iron cooking pot and the water skin, and led the animal towards the river.  It was a half day’s walk there and back, so washing took a full day.  Stiles only went about once a month though, since a spring ran from a rocky outcropping near his house.  The spring water he used for cooking and drinking, the river for washing and bathing.  Today was sunny and warm, with scents of foxglove and honeysuckle carried on the breeze.  
\-------------------------  
Stiles couldn’t pronounce the man’s real name, but he was a Scot, so that’s what he called him.  Scot met him at the river four days after every full moon to trade and share news from the village.  This month, the Scot was here first, lying in the shade of a willow, panting lazily.  “Scot!” called the mage.  “Get off your ass and help me with this!”  The wolf stood, huge and deep brown, before shaking itself and transforming into his human form.  Naked, he walked over to the horse and plucked the pot from its back as if it weighed nothing.    
“How’ve you been, Stiles?” he asked genially as he filled the pot from the river.    
“Same as ever, you?”  
“Great!  Father Deaton’s been teaching me to care for the birds he keeps, and Martin finally gave me a job as hostler at the Whitemoor Keep,” the Scot announced.  
“Father?” Stiles is skeptical of any authority, but especially the church.  He’d been on his own since he was 13, when his mother had been executed by the Argents for daring to use magic to heal a local girl from a fever, and his father had died from grief weeks later.  It was then that he’d fled into the mountains, vulnerable without the protections of his mother’s spells.  Her spells had burned up with her body.    
“He’s alright,” reassured the Scot.  He’d started a small fire between two large rocks and was hanging Stiles’ pot on an iron rod laid between them.  “Bit eccentric, but no danger.  Tells me his god loves all mankind.”  He chuckled at the idea.  
“God loves church men,” said Stiles.  “I have salves for Melissa.  Have you brought me anything but news?  I’ve been missing that ladle you promised me.”  Scot trotted over to his pack and began pulling out packages.  
“Ladle.  Linen.  New knife.  Couldn’t sell that fur, got a hole in it.  Mom needs more willow, more plantain, and… what’s that yellow stuff for burns, more of that.”  Stiles took each item as it was listed.  
“Lion’s tooth and Mary’s gold.  Though what the Virgin Mary has to do with my magic I have no idea.  I like the Latin for it- calendula.  Sounds more… well, just more, it’s better.  And she’s in luck because I made her more already,” he rambled, plopping a small, heavy jar into the Scot’s hand. “There.  Tell her if she runs out again the plantain will work too.  Oh, but she needs more of that.  Well, tell her I’ll have it next month then.  How are Erica’s spells?”  
“Same.  The charm you made her stopped one cold but she still slept for half a day and woke up not knowing where she was.  Didn’t work for the next one either.”    
Stiles harrumphed.  “Needs more power.  That quartz she has won’t hold much of anything.  Can she get Malachi stone, or maybe a pearl?  That would do better.”  
“I’ll see.”  The Scot didn’t sound hopeful.  Then his face brightened.  “Forgot to tell you, there’s a new alpha around.  Haven’t met him except on the last full moon, so I don’t know his name yet, but he seems safe enough.”  
The two friends talked and laughed the afternoon away, helping each other in the work of washing Stiles’ belongings.  The mage even made the wolf get in the water and scrub with the ash and boar fat soap he’d made from the supplies he’d gotten last month.  Stiles, always vigilant and a little nervous, got jumpy after dark because he knew there were Argents in the area, so when the sun began its journey towards the edge of the earth, they parted with a hug and started back towards their homes.  
\------------

The young wolf was grown now.  The forest was his home, a cave his shelter, as it had been since the night he became an alpha.  An alpha without a pack.  He’d made a life for himself, because he was happy to be alone, or at least he was… content.  His black hair, which his mother had kept cropped short, he cut only occasionally, letting it fall down to his shoulder blades.  His beard was as long and matted as his hair.  From the mouth of the cave, the wolf could see no other wolves and no human settlements, and for that he was grateful.    
A month ago, he’d met a another wolf in the forest.  They hadn’t approached, just looked cautiously at each other until the other one had run off.  The last wolf he had actually made contact with had been an alpha, older and stronger than he, and she had snarled and chased him from her pack lands without preamble.  The last human he’d met had shot him with a broadhead arrow that had taken him six days to dig out of his thigh.  That had been almost a year ago.    
Daily, he walked to the creek that ran between two ridges of the mountains that made up one side of the valley in which he lived.  The path between the creek and the cave was well worn, both by paws and booted feet. He had no pot, as he rarely cooked, but occasionally he brought back a kill and roasted it.  He had no crops and didn’t store food.  In winter he ate meat, freshly killed, and berries and nuts.  In spring, he gorged himself on fresh greens, fiddlehead ferns, stinging nettle, elder, and primrose.  Summer brought sour berries and cooling borage.  Fall meant nuts again, and fat from animals preparing for winter, rose hips and crab apple and damson.  
Today, he wore boots with his shirt and breeches and carried the wooden bucket he’d made for getting water back to the cave.  As he filled the bucket in a fast-flowing section of the stream, his sensitive wolf ears alerted him to something walking through the thick woods on the other side of the water.  Pulling the dripping bucket from the flow, he held himself still as a deer and listened.  Nothing.  Sighing, he stood.  His uncle would have teased him and called him afraid.  The wolf was making his way over rocky ground back up the hill when he heard the footsteps again, this time accompanied by the creak of a bow being drawn.    
The first arrow grazed his left temple, cutting him to the bone and leaving behind the scents of wolfsbane and mistletoe.  The bucket tipped from his hand, spilling its contents as it rolled down the small hill.  Dropping low to the ground, the wolf held a hand to his head, trying to stop the blood from blurring his vision.  He had to get to the cave, to his long range weapons, to safety and a place he could defend.  A shout from very close by made him turn, but he was immediately shoved backwards by the impact of another poison-laced arrow, this time hitting him high in the chest, just under his collar bone.  Dragging himself up from the rocks, he stumbled towards his home, but his pursuers were gaining ground, pulling knives from sheaths.  
The wolf crouched, hiding himself behind the roots of a windthrow to size up his pursuers.  If he stayed, he would die.  There were six of them that he could see, Argents dressed in the pale blue and white of their order.  He was wounded already, and he couldn’t hold out against that many.  So he ran.  He didn’t stop to shift because even that short pause could spell instant death.  Another arrow, stone tipped and fletched in blue, buried itself in a tree inches from the wolf’s head as he ran past. Up the rocky ridge he flew, up past the spring that fed his stream, up into the mountains.  For hours he ran, aiming for the territory of the lone wolf he’d seen that spring.  
When night fell, he hadn’t heard the Hunters for some time, so he allowed himself a moment to rest, sinking to his knees against the trunk of a broad, spreading oak.  The arrow was still in him, grating with every heavy breath.  The wolf put a thick stick between his teeth, and, bracing himself, snapped the shaft of the Argent arrow an inch from his chest.  It jostled against his ribs, forcing a quiet groan from him as he pressed his forehead against the thick trunk of the tree, just barely succeeding in not fainting.  After another moment to pant through the pain, he pushed himself up and stumbled through the forest towards what he hoped would be safety.  
\--------  
When Stiles had fled the village, one of the things he’d left behind for the Scot had been half of a summoning charm his mother had given him and he had imbued with his own power.  It was a simple thing, really.  If the holder gripped his half and spoke a simple charm over it, the other half would hum and grow warm with power, alerting that holder to the other’s need.  Claudia had mostly used it to call her son in from the forest for dinner or chores, but the system Stiles had set up with the Scot was that if either needed urgent help, he should set off the charm and meet in a secluded grove halfway between the village and Stiles’ house.    
When the mage felt his half of the charm, suspended on a strip of hide around his neck, begin to heat up, he was in his garden, harvesting bee balm.  He stood immediately and ran to the horse, shoved the bit into her mouth, and mounted, directing her towards the agreed upon meeting place.  Scot had never used the charm before, not even when he thought Erica might die in childbirth, not when Argents had searched the village, not when his father had died.  If he was using it now, the situation must be truly dire.    
Stiles reached the grove first.  Quickly he spread a circle of mountain ash on the soft grass, whispering the charm to awaken it into an Airbhe, a hedge of protection.  The horse he tied to a bramble to graze while he settled himself inside the circle and waited.    
Not long after, he heard footsteps approaching and stood, fingertips glowing subtly with a ready defense.  Scot stumbled into the clearing, half carrying another person.  The man was tall, dark haired, and ghost white with blood loss, barely on his feet.  Stiles rushed forward to meet them, shoving his shoulder under the man’s other arm.  “You have to take him,” panted the Scot.  “He’s a wolf.  Argents are not far.  I can lead them off but not with him, and he’s badly hurt-”  
“Get him on my horse,” interrupted Stiles.  “Be careful, the bolt’s still in him.  There you are.  You be careful too, Scot.  Argents are no fools; they’ll know you’re a wolf-”  
“I’ve got Boyd and Isaac at the bottom of the valley waiting, don’t worry.”  Stiles was not reassured, but he could do nothing but wish his friend well.  They parted with a nod, and Stiles turned back to the man slumped over his horse’s neck.    
\----------  
By the time they reached Stiles’ cottage, blood was seeping down the horse’s leg, soaking her blue roan coat.  She wouldn’t stray far, so Stiles set her free to wander and graze.  The wounded wolf nearly hit the ground when Stiles slid him off the horse’s back, and would have if Stiles hadn’t drawn from the spark of power he held deep within his chest, buoying the man’s body up off the wet earth.  Taking hold of the thin shirt, the mage dragged the wolf down the steps and into his house.  The man remained absolutely still when Stiles laid him down on his uninjured side next to the fire ring, his too-quick breaths the only sign of life.    
Stiles rushed outside to get the cooking fire going and to hang the pot he'd filled with water and herbs over it.  He’d need compresses to help soak out any sickness from the wound.  Inside, the wolf was beginning to stir, so Stiles crouched beside him and turned him onto his back.    
"Are you awake?" he asked softly.  
The wolf's glassy, dazed-looking green eyes flickered open, and his nostrils flared, scenting the air.  Suddenly, his body tensed and he tried to scramble backwards, but Stiles held onto his shirt, restraining him with ease.    
"Wait!  Wait.  You're safe.  I'm human, but I am no hunter."  Frantically, Stiles cast his eyes about the room in search of some way to prove himself to the frightened wolf.  "I'm on your side; I'm trying to help you!"    
The wolf was still struggling weakly, his booted feet scuffling against the dirt floor in an attempt to get away from the perceived threat.  Unable to think of anything else, Stiles let go, allowing him to scramble backwards into the corner, and called fire into his hands, cradling the warm ball between his palms for the wolf to see.  
"You-" the wolf started, looking suspicious, but the word caught in his throat and he swallowed hard before continuing in a hoarse murmur.    
"You're a mage?"  
Stiles smiled.  "I am.  And my mother.  She was, I mean.  So you're safe here."  He picked up his water skin from where it lay against the wall and held it out, careful not to get too close.  "Are you thirsty?"    
Again, the wolf scented the air before reaching out with his uninjured arm and snatching the skin from Stiles.  "Not too much.  You'll be sick."    
The wolf took a few slow sips and lowered the skin with shaking hands.  "What is your name, wolf?"  
"Derek."  
"I'm Stiles."  
And with that, the wolf took a shaky breath and slumped backwards into the corner, sliding down the sod bricks into a heap on the floor, unconscious. Stiles ran a hand through his short hair and set to work.  He laid the wolf back on the floor by the fire, gathered his supplies, and tore a hole in the shoulder of the bloody shirt.  With a hot rag, he soaked the cloth away from the swollen, red skin around the arrow shaft.  When Stiles tugged gently on the splintered end of the shaft, it slid easily from Derek’s flesh, missing the stone head and coated in congealed blood and opaque pus.  The wolf moaned softly, a line of pain appearing between his thick brows when Stiles felt around the wound with two fingers.  The arrow head had slid between two ribs sideways and then rotated as he ran so that the broad base caught on the back sides of the bones.    
“No…” mumbled Derek.  His voice was barely a whisper.  He lifted his hand and wrapped long fingers around Stiles’ wrist, tugging the mage’s hand away from the wound.  “Stop…”  
Stiles gently extricated himself from the wolf’s weak grasp and laid his arm across his chest.  “The shaft broke off.  You must let me take it out.”  Derek’s eyes slid shut and he dipped his chin in a tiny nod.  He dug his fingers into the bearskin rug he lay on, squeezing the coarse fur in his fist while the mage dug into his shoulder.  
\-----------  
Stiles opened his eyes during the blackest part of the night, not sure what had woken him. Typically, it was some nocturnal animal snuffling around his door in search of food. The mage reached out with one hand, searching for a projectile, and landed on his shoe, which he threw at the door. After a few minutes of silence, Stiles decided that he must have scared off whatever it was, and rolled over to go back to sleep. Then he heard another noise, a low moan coming from where the wolf slept. The man shifted in his sleep, moaned again, a desperate, uncomfortable noise. “Derek?” asked Stiles. The only reply was another sound of discomfort from the wolf. Was he dreaming? The mage reached out again and touched the wolf’s ankle where it stuck out from under the skins. 

His skin was burning hot. Stiles sat up and summoned cool light to his hands. Derek lay on his side, facing towards the inside of the room. His brow was furrowed in what looked like pain, and he had his knees pulled up towards his chest. Stiles took two steps over to his patient and knelt beside him, placing a hand gently on his arm. “Derek?” he asked quietly. Derek gave no sign that he’d heard or felt Stiles, so the mage gave his arm a little squeeze and spoke louder, putting a bit of magic into the command. “Derek, wake up.” The wolf grimaced, but his eyes cracked open a tiny bit and he looked up at Stiles. 

The mage smiled down at him apologetically. “You have a fever from your wound. I need to give you medicine. Can you sit up?” Derek blinked slowly, then nodded once. The wolf sat up shakily, slumping back against the stone that made up the back wall of the hut. He let his head tip back, breathing too quickly for just that amount of exertion (BLAH). Stiles placed a hand on the man’s forehead. Just as hot as his ankle. “I need to look at the wound,” he explained as he pulled aside the man’s shirt and the poultice he’d placed the previous evening. Surprisingly, the wound didn’t look as bad as Stiles had expected. He’d seen plenty of wound fevers before, and this was not like those. This wound was red and inflamed around the edges, but there was a good scab, barely any swelling, and no pus at all. If the wolf didn’t have a fever, Stiles would have congratulated himself on his good work and sent him away.  
Stiles placed a hand on the wolf’s wounded shoulder, letting his magic seep into the muscle and bone.  
The wolf shifted his glassy gaze to where Stile’s palm touched his skin. The feeling of being magically investigated was a strange one, Stiles knew, and in Derek’s fevered state it must be even more confusing. “Shhhh. I need to find out what’s causing your fever. Be still.”  
Inside the wolf’s shoulder, Stiles felt what he expected: wounded flesh, humors out of balance, and the power of the herbs in the poultice, enhanced by his own magic. But there was something else there as well, something out of place. He recognized whatever it was, had used it before, but it was out of context and he couldn’t place it. Stiles pushed a bit of power into the thing, let the sense of it surround him. Derek groaned, a rumble under the mage’s hand, and Stiles raised his other hand to smooth the lines of pain from Derek’s forhead, wiping the pain from his mind, if not his body. The wolf relaxed a little, and Stiles refocused on the unknown power. It reminded him of… Yule? Snowy days and crackling fires popped into his head. Fertility and safety were there too. The scent of pine swept through the hut, and- “Mistletoe?” Stiles said aloud. He took his hands off the wolf.  
The hunters who had shot Derek were truly evil, Stiles thought. Mistletoe was only used to kill a wolf, and it didn’t do the job quickly. If Stiles hadn’t had magic, Derek would have been doomed to a slow painful death. However, if Stiles could magically sustain Derek’s life force while his body fought the poison, he would have a chance. Stiles sat back on his calves and sighed. It would be a long night.  
\--------------------  
Three days later, the wolf was back on his feet. The two walked the quarter mile to the small grove where Stiles cultivated a couple of wild fruits. The mage stood beneath a branch and reached up, but couldn’t reach what he wanted. Derek stepped in front of Stiles and plucked the crab apple from the tree. “Would you like me to pick more?” he asked. Stiles smiled. “I would.” Their eyes met for a moment, held until Stiles blushed and looked down. “I’ll get a basket.”


End file.
